


Would a Ghost With Any Other Face Smile As Sweet?

by nowhere_dawn_death_phan



Category: Torchwood, Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen, M/M, Not Beta Read, Parallels fic, also Gwen and HG are similar characters too, because ianto and wolcott ARE the same character, more of a focus on Wolcott than Ianto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_dawn_death_phan/pseuds/nowhere_dawn_death_phan
Summary: It starts, as it so often does with Jack Harkness, on a dark night where he’s way out of his depth. It turns out that if you live long enough, history has a funny way of managing to repeat itself.
Relationships: David Wolcott & Helena "H.G." Wells, Ianto Jones/Jack Harkness, Jack Harkness & Gwen Cooper, Jack Harkness & Helena "H.G." Wells, david wolcott/jack harkness
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Would a Ghost With Any Other Face Smile As Sweet?

It starts, as it so often does with Jack Harkness, on a dark night where he’s way out of his depth. A Weevil, a branch. A shy young Englishman, George Washington’s colichemarde. A few scratches, a rogue group of churchboys. A simple question that changes everything. “And you are?”  
“Jones. Ianto Jones.”  
_“Agent David Wolcott.”_  
“Looked like a Weevil to me.”  
_“I think you’ll find that’s mine.”_

It continues just a few days later with a coincidental introduction from a mutual friend in one hand, and a stubborn streak a mile long in the other.  
“Keep stalking me, I’ll wipe your memory.”  
_“You two have met already? Well, that rather ruins the drama of it all.”_  
In both circumstances, what soon follows is eventful, to say the least. Emerging out of it, he gains an employee in one lifetime, and a friend in another.  
“Report for work first thing tomorrow.”  
_“Room for one more in your little party?”_

Vaguely, Jack can hear the sound of screaming. Distant screams, from some other time. There’s nobody else here with them to be screaming now. The building is in ruins, nothing but rubble and dust at their feet, a shell of whatever it used to be. A commercial warehouse. A family home. Both and neither and something else entirely. There is a hand on his arm, a woman leaning into his side, her black hair falling onto his shoulder as they stumble on through the wreckage together, looking for their friend.  
Helena. Gwen.  
“Ianto?”  
_“Woolly?”_  
“Ianto!”  
_“David!”_  
Jack remembers having done this before, picked his way through the hollowed shell of _something_ in the wake of some grand disaster, with the taste of dust on his tongue and a thrill of horror in his heart, and for a moment he cannot remember who it is that he is meant to be searching for.  
Whoever he is, he is half buried in a far corner, pinned to a wall on three sides by a support beam and something that might have once been a staircase, dust on his face, on his suit and his cloak, his hands scratched and bloody. His eyes are bright and anxious and calm and determined at the same time, and as he reaches a desperate hand forwards to them he is both a Warehouse agent and a Torchwood agent all at once. He is both an inexperienced Englishman cowering from the unexpected fallout of an explosive artefact and a Welshman who has seen it all before and will undoubtedly do so again. The only thing they share in common is the name that they mutter as they are pulled from the debris.  
“Jack.”  
_“Jack.”_

Wolcott laughs. It is not a sound that Jack hears often, and for that reason he savours it all the more.  
_“Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”_  
_“Is that so, Woolly?”_  
_“Don’t tell me you actually believe him, HG.”_  
It is warm, for November. The grass beneath his hands is soft, slightly damp. There are no ducks in St James’s Park, and the sky is blue and cloudless. Helena lies beside Jack on the grass, her hands in her hair. Wolcott is sat on a bench at Helena’s other side, his hat pulled low to cover a black eye, though they are out of public view here anyway.  
Ianto is sat on a computer chair, his knuckles are bruised and his nose is bleeding and Owen is laughing with Gwen about something that Jack cannot hear, and has no desire to. It is cold, for July. There are no Weevils in Cardiff Bay, and the sky is dark and moonless.  
_“Well, you tell this Doctor-“_  
“-your Doctor-”  
_“-that we found you first.”_

Jack is discovering that he cannot run from ghosts that know his name. He turns a corner and they are there waiting for him. They hammer at his skull, lost little boys in a big wide world. It is hard to know who he is really seeing when he looks at them anymore. They coexist in his head, battling for dominance over reality, and sometimes they both win, as if he could leave Cardiff and Ianto and drive down to London and David would be there. As if he isn’t a hundred years in the past, and long dead.  
He hears a door fling open from where he is sitting deep within his house. Hard, heavy, the action one of frustration and anger and all of the things that he does not associate with the man performing it. Jack can tell by the sound of approaching footsteps who it is, but what he does not know is how they found him, how they got here.  
_“Wolcott.”_ It is a weak attempt at a greeting, but the agent does not seem to care.  
He sits in the old chair opposite Jack, takes off his hat, clutches the soft felt of the homberg in his trembling grip. He does not do anything for a moment, his face hidden in the shadows of the guttering candlelight, and then he starts to cry. Jack does not need to ask what has happened, he is sure he already knows.  
The tension in the tourist office is thick, the atmosphere oppressive. The gun in Ianto’s hand trembles a little in a grip that is slick with water and sweat and blood. The expression on his face is so familiar and yet somehow so alien. Jack remembers the way that grief framed this same face over a century ago, how it settled itself into the eyes, the mouth. But there’s an anger in Ianto that he never saw in David. David was only ever scared, he wasn’t angry. Not with Jack, anyway. Helena wasn’t his fault. This isn’t either, not really, but he knows Ianto won’t want to see it that way. He’s a scapegoat, and a willing one at that.  
_“She was all that I had.”_  
“I’ve nothing left to lose.”  
_“You have me.”_  
“There’s always something left to lose.”

They are dancing, bodies pressed against each other, music playing. They sway in time, and their movements are well practised, if a little awkward. Jack is smiling, and he knows that Ianto is too. Gwen’s wedding, and things had only gone slightly worse than he’d been expecting them to, which is good going as far as he’s concerned. It’s not exactly the most interesting dance Jack has ever taken part in, but it’s calm, and it’s enjoyable. It’s also going a lot better than he remembers their dancing going in the past, and he pulls back a little.  
“Told you, practise makes perfect.”  
Ianto looks at him, brow furrowed in something that seems like confusion. “What?”  
They are dancing. Or rather, trying to. It lasts a record fifteen seconds before Wolcott treads on Jack’s toes and nearly sends them over. Jack pushes him away in an attempt to steady them both as Helena lifts the needle off the record, the living room filling with a sudden chilly silence. That’s the thing about Emile Berliner’s gramophone - it makes the quiet almost unbearable.  
 _“It’s alright. Try again. Practise makes perfect.”_  
David nods, wipes his hands on his shirt, flexes his fingers. There’s a nervousness to him that isn’t exactly out of character, but it’s something Jack hasn’t seen in a while. He will in later years come to learn that as of that very afternoon Helena is on her third and final warning, a warning that only delays the inevitable rather than prevents it. But that doesn’t matter for now, it won’t for a while. For now the only thing that matters is teaching Wolcott how to waltz without somebody ending up dead, which is proving to be a far more difficult task than he’d been expecting when he agreed to it.  
 _“You can incapacitate a grown man with your hands tied behind your back, but you can’t two-step?”_  
Wolcott takes Jack’s hands again with a tentative smile, but doesn’t grace his sarcasm with an answer, instead looks over his shoulder at the room's only other occupant. _“Helena, the needle.”_  
There is that moment of waiting when the record starts to spin but the song hasn’t yet begun, and then music fills the room. Charles is out, and Helena has assured them he won’t be back before morning, so the living room is theirs and theirs alone. There is a dance room at their disposal designed specifically to host Charles’s parties and their many attendees, but Helena likes the intimacy of the squashed living room, especially considering she knows she doesn’t have long left to spend with them. Jack and David aren’t her guests, they’re her friends, and her section of the house belongs just as much to them as it does herself or her brother.  
Though, she thinks to herself as David catches his foot on the edge of the coffee table and nearly upends the entire thing, perhaps it would be better to start in the ballroom. Just until he finds his feet. 

Jack is sick of not having bodies to bury. He has a growing tally of dead friends and nothing to show for it except nightmares and empty workstations. At least with Ianto he knew. He got as close to a goodbye as he can ever truly get and that should be enough but it isn’t. It’s not even close.  
“I love you.”  
“Don’t.”  
He didn’t know with David. He doesn’t know if it would have made a difference. That’s a lie and he knows it. It wouldn’t have changed anything, except maybe he’d have held him a little bit tighter as they said goodbye. There was nothing he could have done to convince David not to get on that boat. It was his job, and more than that, it was his life. The Warehouse took everything that he had from him until all that he had was The Warehouse, and come hell or high water he was going to serve it until it killed him. And kill him it did. It wasn’t supposed to happen, not that any of it ever was. Jack can still remember it, the warm wood of the boat under the heat of the sun, the salt in the sea air. David, smiling, perfect as ever, watching the crates being loaded with the aura of a proud father. Jack had squeezed his arm, pulled him close against him on the deck. It’s only a week to America with the help of some artefacts, he’ll be there for three days helping them reshelve everything in Warehouse 13, and he’ll be back before Jack knows he’s gone. Torchwood keeps him busy, he’ll barely even notice. Besides, now that he’s working in Cardiff full time it’s not like he gets many opportunities to go down to London and see David anyway. This wouldn’t be his job usually, but with the threat of world war breathing down their necks, it’s all hands on deck. In this case, quite literally.  
Jack remembers putting his hand on Wolcott’s shoulder, breathing in his ear. _“Make sure they look after her.”_  
The contents of the Dark Vault and the Bronze Sector were the first things to be moved, under maximum security. They’ll be fully set up by the time that David gets there, but he nods. He has every intention of checking in on Helena everyday, just like he’d been doing since the day she was bronzed. _“I will.”_  
Jack remembers the way that Wolcott had practically shooed him down the gangplank when it was time for him to leave, how Jack had retaliated by taking the front of his suit and pulling him into an awkward one-armed hug. Jack remembers the feeling of his lapels under his fingers, the way he’d rested his forehead against the brim of David’s homberg.  
 _“I love you.”_  
Wolcott had smiled, that painful, knowing smile of his, and Jack had felt his heart shatter. It was pointless, he knew it the moment the words had left his mouth. The Warehouse had consumed David from the inside out, filled him with information and caution and cynicism. There was no room for anything else in that heart of his, not anymore. Losing Helena had been the last straw, and David had let the Warehouse take him without complaint.  
Wolcott’s fingers had closed around Jack’s and he’d pushed him away, that smile fading for just a moment. _“I can’t.”_

He’d been tracking down Gwen intentionally, bumping into Helena had happened completely by accident. He was in London for some unimportant reason or another, and so was she. They collided with each other in the middle of St James Park, him looking at the sky, her at her phone. She’d stumbled and he’d reached out instinctively to catch her. Whatever witty comment he’d had prepared about her falling for him had died in his throat as soon as she’d pushed her hair out of her face and they’d locked eyes.  
“Helena.”  
 _“Can’t leave you alone for a minute.”_  
“Jack.”  
He hasn’t aged. Neither has she. Over a century has passed and they look exactly the same as they did the last time they saw each other. He smiles, he can’t help it. He’s been alone for so long and now she’s here.  
“When did they let you out?”  
Helena takes his sleeve, pulls him out of the middle of the path. She’s a little older, actually. He can see it now that the shock has started to fade. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that she’s changed with the times, she’s always been a little bit ahead of them if he’s honest with himself, but she’s definitely not the same. Her hair is loose and wavy, he’s never seen her with it down before. Her jacket is black leather, her shirt a pale blue, and she’s wearing jeans with hiking boots. An odd combination, but somehow so clearly Helena that he can’t picture her in anything else.  
“A few years ago.”  
“And you didn’t call?” He can’t help but sound hurt.  
She shrugs helplessly. “I tried. You don’t exist anymore. Torchwood doesn’t exist anymore. Nobody that I spoke to had any idea how to find you, not even Mrs Frederic.”  
“That’s never stopped you before.”  
Helena toes at the grass, and then takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to find you, Jack. I wanted to leave the Warehouse behind. I wanted to leave all of it behind. It hurt too much to think that you were still out there. One of the first things I did when I got free was go through the old files, to find out what happened to Woolly. Part of me wanted to believe that he was okay, that he’d have retired and married and had children and grandchildren but there was nothing, Jack. Tracking you down meant that I would have to acknowledge that you were all that was left of him, and I wasn’t ready to do that. I’m still not. I probably never will be.”  
Jack nods. He understands that. Running away from reminders of the past, reminders of people you can never get back.  
 _“This whole world is like a graveyard.”_  
Jack fishes a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, scribbles something down and holds it out to her. “My number. When you’re ready, you call me. Trust me when I tell you that you can’t run away forever.”  
Helena takes the paper, folds it up neatly, and walks away without a word.  
 _“Oh yes, I can.”_

Helena calls him when they find Roaring Dan Seavey’s treasure. She’s been crying, and Jack feels like he might not be long in joining her. It’s not a body, it’s not even close, but it’s something. Those artefacts will be shelved, and Wolcott’s final assignment will be complete, a few months shy of a century from when the order was first issued. Jack’s glad that him and Helena will be able to see it, that they’ll be there when David’s job is done, that he’ll be able to rest now.  
He invites Gwen, as an afterthought, for no real reason other than that he thinks that she’ll be able to appreciate it. Nobody raises an eyebrow when he turns up with somebody they’ve never seen before, though Helena looks like she very much wants to. Jack shakes everyone’s hands, introduces himself to them all. Agent Nielsen, Agent Bering, Agent Lattimer, Agent Jinks. Agent Donovan hugs him, hugs Gwen, hugs Helena. Gwen is introduced merely as an ex-Torchwood agent, and then Artie leads the three of them silently through the stacks.  
He tells them that the crates are being stored in the Ovoid Quarantine for now, that they can help shelve them, if they want. Helena shakes her head, says that just seeing them will be enough for her, and Artie nods. He leaves them in the entrance, tells them to take as much time as they want, and disappears back into the rows.  
Helena steps in first, and Jack goes to follow when Gwen takes hold of his arm, asks why she’s here, why she’s mourning a man she’s never met. Jack just holds a finger to his lips and indicates that she should follow him. The Ovoid Quarantine is cold, and Jack surveys the jumbled stacks of crates the way that he had the day the HMS Avalon left port. Some of the labels are faded now, some torn off or missing entirely, but Wolcott’s handwriting is clear on the few that remain legible, that neat print that drove Helena crazy with how slowly he wrote.  
It feels underwhelming, somehow. He thought it would feel more final, that it would be satisfying, to know that it was done, that the door could be closed on the life of David Wolcott, but now he just feels lonelier than ever.  
It’s Helena that breaks the silence in the end, she’s holding something, pressing it flat to the top of the crate nearest to her, and she calls Jack over to have a look. It’s an old photograph of the three of them, Wolcott in the middle, smiling placidly, an arm around each of their shoulders, Helena laughing at Jack, who has the smug expression of somebody who’s just made a less than appropriate comment and gotten away with it. Jack wishes he could remember what it was that he’d said to make her laugh like that. They all look so alive, and for the first time in a long time, Jack knows exactly who he’s looking at in that photograph. There is no muddling, no confusion or doubt. David Wolcott is David Wolcott and Ianto Jones is Ianto Jones and he has been doing them both a massive disservice by thinking of them as being one and the same for all these years.  
Gwen makes a choked noise of surprise as she catches sight of the photograph of David, and Jack pulls her close to his side. That’s why he she’s here, he wants to tell her, because this can be as much about Ianto as it is David if that’s what she wants it to be. He disappeared before they could mourn together, as did Helena, but they are here now together, for a while, united in a common emotion, if not by a common person.  
Jack pulls Helena close to his other side, holds the last pieces of the men that he loved against him, and whispers. _“I love you.”_  
The last piece of Ianto Jones and the last piece of David Wolcott speak as one, speak as much for those that they are here to represent as they do themselves.  
 _“I know.”_


End file.
